


the chains that pull me down (slacken off when you're around)

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Charles-centric, Gay Mutant Road Trip, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Nosebleed, charles is a good boy, erik is unabashedly gay, violence kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 10:09:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7356994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles considers himself rather good, a clean-cut Oxford boy--Oxford man. He doesn’t advertise neither his sexuality nor his proclivities therein unless he’s tripping over himself with drink, and since his taking head of the CIA’s new mutant division, he’s been seriously lacking in the opportunities for any vice.</p>
<p>Not that he misses them. He <i>doesn’t</i> have a drinking problem, nor is he a sexual deviant. Of course not, he’s a good boy, he was raised in Westchester, New York, he is a professor in genetics on his way to a PhD if he’d like it. He doesn’t have vices. He doesn’t “do” bad.</p>
<p>It’s just Erik.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> in my attempt to singlehandedly cultivate and keep alive the "charles is a good oxford boy and erik is his gay awakening" trope, i pumped this monstrosity out. 
> 
> just as a sidenote for anyone curious, every charles i ever write is trans and it's never going to be like a 'big deal'. in this fic, charles has never _technically_ had penetrative sex to avoid coming out to people or altering their minds. erik is going to change that, and there will be a future conversation, obviously, but there's not going to be a despairing whodunnit in regards to charles' gender. it's just a Thing. 
> 
> if you're looking for explorations of charles' gender identity and the impact of it on his relationship with a trans-clueless erik, there's a fic called [second chances](https://archiveofourown.org/works/373245) by [red](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red) that's an au, but still very cool to read.

Charles Xavier’s morning routine has always been the same, for as long as he’s been at Oxford.

He gets up in the morning at an acceptable time, usually sometime close to the double digit times of day, and as soon as his feet hit the ground of his Oxford-issued flat that he doesn’t technically  _ need _ to rent, he stretches his arms high over his head until his vertebrae align. Then, he stalks down the hallway, careful and quiet so as not to wake up his second shift-working sister too early, Raven, and makes a cup of tea for himself, setting the coffeemaker to start brewing for her eventual rise into the land of the living. 

(Charles had learned long ago that the Xavier clan, he and his sister especially, can’t live without a steady supply of coffee and tea. He also learned long ago that if one wants something done right, he ought to do it himself, and morning beverages apply to this rule double.)

He then sits on their loveseat tucked into the confines of the cluttered living room, opening the curtains and letting the light shine in on his legs and on the book he’s reading, and somehow he manages to get a bit of light reading done every morning until Raven wakes up. She greets him every morning with a soft kiss to his cheek and a grunt of morning breath acknowledgement, and Charles wrinkles his nose as she shuffles to fix herself a mug of coffee. 

Then they sit together for a while, Charles reading aloud to her as she finishes her coffee cup and dozes on his thigh, his hand curling in her soft red hair and ghosting over the delicate blue scales scattered across her forehead. This goes on until Charles eventually rouses himself at half ten for his shower and makes the trip with Raven across campus to his class at eleven, kissing her once more on the cheek and telling her to behave.

Today, however, Charles does not wake up in his Oxford-issued bed in his Oxford-issued flat. He wakes up within unfamiliar walls, and as he sits up and rubs his eyes, he checks the clock on the table beside him. It reads half six in digital red letters, and Charles reaches a hand up to absently run through his hair. A presence stirs beside him, and Charles bristles, if only for a moment, until he sees the familiar orange and blue blur in the early-morning sunlight that streams through the blinds over the still unidentified windows.

“Where the hell are we?” Charles asks aloud, and Raven grunts as an answer.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think he’d gotten plastered and slept over at someone else’s house, but the facts don’t add up. He’d been with Raven at the bar. He’d just graduated, and Raven doesn’t drink, so she’d offered to babysit him when he inevitably got so plastered he couldn’t walk straight and puked in some form of greenery. Had she rented a hotel? No, it was much too ugly and unkempt, the walls too bare and the meagre furniture undusted. A motel, then.

Charles shakes his head and groans. No, he remembers now that the delirium is wearing off. Remembers the speech he gave, the attempt to apprehend Sebastian Shaw, the extraction from the ocean of Erik Lehnsherr. Erik Lehnsherr. The ocean. Fuck! Erik’s lips had been blue when Charles had suggested they share shock blankets, and then Charles had fallen asleep right there on the boat. He groans again and sinks back into the motel bed. Fuck.

“Figure it out?” Raven asks, yawning. 

  
Charles sighs as she sits up and stretches, ever-flexible and mouse-quiet. “Is that man okay? Erik?” He can’t help but ask, can’t help but be curious about Erik. Infiltrating his mind even just to tell him to let go had been like wading to the middle of a pool of broken glass, but Charles had felt the soaring happiness at the idea of no longer being alone and couldn’t help but get attached, even if Erik’s mind had doubly echoed the sentiment that Charles was to stay out of his head.

Raven nods, getting out of bed to rummage through her suitcase and pick out some clothes for the day. “Yeah. He’s in his own room across the hall and down a ways. They told me to sleep with you to keep you warm. They just gave him like a thousand blankets or something and told him not to leave.” Raven pauses, sleep pants half shucked down. Charles splutters and gives her some privacy, an arm slung over his eyes in protest. “Is he really one of us?”

“If by one of us, you mean a mutant, yes. He manipulates metal, but I’m not sure if that’s  _ all _ he does. If that’s the limit. Do let me know when you’re decent, please. When you finish changing.”

Raven laughs and changes, and Charles decides that’s his cue to continue.

“I saw some unspeakable things in his mind, and that was only to tell him to let go of that submarine he was drowning himself with. I don’t know what he’s been through. I don’t know if it’s going to be okay.” He worries his lip between his teeth and sighs, shrugging against the pillows. “He could be a really big help to the CIA, I suppose, if we want to reduce him to that based on what combat and espionage skills I gleaned over, but I don’t think he’s going to stay longer than he has to. He’s only interested in one goal.” 

Raven hums a little, sitting back onto the bed, the frame creaking beneath her weight. “I’m dressed,” she says, and when Charles opens his eyes, she’s putting on her socks. Charles supposes that’s his cue to get dressed. “What’s  _ our _ reason for being here? How are we useful to the CIA, again?”

“I would venture to guess that we’re cooperating because they don’t know what we are,” Charles answers.

“We’re  _ people _ , Charles.”

“What we’re capable of, then. Not what I meant. Of course I know we’re people, and you know that, and I would venture our friend Erik knows that. With a vague stretch of the imagination, even Agent MacTaggart might know that.” He sits up again, pinching his nose between his fingers in a direct mirror of something he saw his father do countless times before he died. “However, I am more than willing to sit here and let them deduce we’re not going to kill anyone. There’s no reason for us to create suspicion trying to leave. Even if this is all rather demeaning.”

“No shit,” Raven says, throwing her arms up. “I feel like if I’m not being ogled at, I’m being looked at like a weapon on legs!”

“Yes, rather,” Charles replies, climbing out of bed and unfolding a pair of slacks and cardigan from his shirt. “I suspect you’re hellbent on me wiping their memories and the two of us leaving, and it’s not going to happen. If I can avoid any mutant panic, so to speak, I will do my utmost. We don’t need to be rounded up like cattle, Raven, and people don’t need to be calling for all mutants to show themselves, as though we’re hiding anything from people.”

Raven shrugs. “Fair enough. I guess that’s reason enough to stay.” She grins and pokes Charles in his gut, through the fabric of his cardigan, but it’s hard enough to hurt just a little. Raven sometimes forgets how strong she is, or how soft Charles is round the middle. “Or maybe I’ll just stay to make sure you don’t burn this facility or whatever’s kitchens down trying to make muffins.”

Charles flushes, fixing his collar in the mirror over the shoddy bureau. Agent MacTaggart’s mind calls out to him suddenly and he swats Raven away playfully before furrowing his brow, fingers to his temple to signal to Raven he’s using his powers.

_ Charles? _ Agent MacTaggart’s mind is tentative, but it lets Charles in easily, the telepathic link forming with little resistance as he zeroes in on her from down the hall.  _ Just checking if you’re awake. No rush, but we thought we might be getting to Division X--the compound--before it gets too late in the morning. _ Charles feels a bit of regret from her, and winces slightly at the chewing out she got from her boss right after she informed him of what exactly had gone down on the coast.

_ Of course, Agent MacTaggart, _ Charles replies, sending reassuring thoughts her way and the mental equivalent of an award-winning smile.  _ We’ve just gotten dressed. Give me a moment to brush my teeth and tame my hair and we’ll be ready to go.  _ Charles grabs his toiletry bag from his suitcase and wanders off into the bathroom, gesturing at his temple with his toothbrush and mouthing ‘MacTaggart’ at Raven before disappearing behind the door.  _ Would you prefer I wake up Mr. Lehnsherr or would you like to do the honours?  _ Charles desperately wants a reason to talk to Erik again, to get to at least touch that fascinating mind in passing.

With Agent MacTaggart’s confirmation ringing in his ears, Charles runs a hand through his hair,  deems it tousled but acceptable, and finishes brushing his teeth. It isn’t fair for him to be this excited. He should have walked out as soon as he finished packing his bag up, but here he is, immaculately fixing every piece of his hair after another once-over in the mirror like he’s going on a date. 

Not that he would be going on a date in any case. Charles Xavier doesn’t date. Charles Xavier lets people buy him drinks at pubs and gets absolutely pissed and then gives hand- and blowjobs to people in bathrooms. Charles Xavier keeps his hands above the blankets and rides along with other people’s orgasms. Charles Xavier never has bite marks, or hickeys, or scratches, but he does occasionally have semen in his hair and down his throat and is an expert at finding the clitoris and having his nails neatly trimmed to accommodate. 

He’s good where it counts, and it’s easier not to have to either explain or manipulate someone’s memories.

He preens for a little while longer before informing Raven where he’s going and seeking out Erik’s mind, meandering down the hallway and touching the peeling fake tapestry wallpaper as he does so. As he arrives in front of Erik’s door and poises to knock, he’s shocked to find the door swings open and Erik barrels into him. 

The pair of them collapse onto the floor in a heap, and Charles wishes it was  _ anything _ like a romance novel and not like Erik’s knee in his stomach and his elbow smacking into Charles’ nose and Charles’ leg jamming directly into Erik’s crotch in a very unsexy way. Erik’s suitcase clatters to the floor, thankfully far from Charles’ vulnerable… well, everything.

Charles groans as Erik scrambles to regain his purchase and sit back, rubbing at the back of his head where it hit the ground. Erik stares at him in alarm for a minute, and Charles doesn’t know why until he feels a thin drip of something wet and warm down his face. Is he bleeding? Shit, he’s bleeding.

They both talk at once. “I apologise for elbowing you in the nose,” Erik says stiffly, right at the same time Charles says “I would really like a tissue,” and the two of them stare at one another for a long silence before Charles smiles up at him, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“I really, er, would like that tissue, if you don’t mind. I forgot my handkerchief in my room, I’m afraid.”

Charles isn’t sure he’s imagining the raised eyebrow and the slight twitch of Erik’s lip, but he doesn’t bother asking if something’s funny because he gets a thought so loudly from Erik that he looks rather...  _ alluring-handsome-sexy _ with a bloody nose, and that leaves him stunned, sitting up and looking rather dumb with his blood dripping into his outstretched hands and all over his slacks as Erik retreats into his motel room’s toilet to retrieve a wad of tissues.

_ Well.  _ This was certainly unexpected.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is never, not once, hot under the collar because of Erik, because that’s just absurd, they’ve barely met. It isn’t his fault. Honestly, Charles praises God that they get away from the gym after their experiment with Cerebro. He doesn’t enjoy a ritual when it’s a ritual he isn’t in complete control of, and it’s starting to feel a lot like Erik is the one controlling when Charles comes and goes--not that he’s thinking of them as a pair, or a euphemism, or anything like that. He just happens to enjoy the pull of Erik’s mind, innocent enough, and he’s beginning to think Erik is taking advantage of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had two chapters already written. can't promise i'll update this very regularly after this chapter, just because god knows i get so immensely distracted...

Erik doesn’t mention the nosebleed again, and neither does Charles after he explains to Raven that he and Erik pulled an Abbott-and-Costello and ran right into one another.

If Erik were the telepath and Charles were his mental prey, he would be uncomfortable, and the thought of that makes him feel horribly naughty. Not that he would ever use that word,  _ naughty _ , especially now that he’s an actual professor, because it’s a bit too remnant of a rather niche audience for even his ailing mind. No, Charles considers himself rather good, a clean-cut Oxford boy--Oxford  _ man _ . He doesn’t advertise neither his sexuality nor his proclivities therein unless he’s tripping over himself with drink, and since his taking head of the CIA’s new mutant division, he’s been seriously lacking in the opportunities for any vice.

Not that he misses them. He  _ doesn’t  _ have a drinking problem, nor is he a sexual deviant. Of course not, he’s a good boy, he was raised in Westchester, New York, he is a professor in genetics on his way to a PhD if he’d like it. He doesn’t have vices. He doesn’t “do” bad.

It’s just Erik. 

It’s always just Erik, that Erik is just so overwhelming in a way that sparks Charles’ interests, both intellectual and… physical. He’s embarrassed about it, really, because he doesn’t really  _ know _ Erik so well, and already he’s getting to the point where he’s having trouble containing himself around him.

No, not quite trouble. He just hates to see or feel Erik stalking out of his room because he knows he can’t help but come along for the trip down to the gym, where Erik fights like a wild dog with the punching bag he keeps firmly attached to the chain with his powers, where his quick jabs turn as he gets into the rhythm into masterful punches that would knock even a veritable foe to the floor, where even his lack of proper stance doesn’t matter one bit in the fantasy of Shaw he’s running in his mind, which Charles follows with rapt attention, because it’s so unbelievably… unbelievably…something or other. (A lesson in vocabulary, is what he is; Charles ought to start leafing through the thesaurus, really, because Erik is just so much that often he finds himself grappling for the right words in situations in which he feels the need to describe him.) Unbelievably cruel. Unbelievably dangerous. Unbelievably powerful.  _ Unbelievably hot. _

Charles is hurt that he even thinks of another man as _ aesthetically _ appealing, let alone finds his mind anything remotely so.

And then as though to rub salt in Charles’ wounds, as though Charles himself were the very punching bag, he’s off to shower, every time. Shower! The nerve. Charles always manages to slip out of his mind by then, at least, and he’s proud of his immense self control each time.

Charles is never, not once, hot under the collar because of Erik, because that’s just absurd, they’ve barely met. It isn’t his fault. Honestly, Charles praises God that they get away from the gym after their experiment with Cerebro. He doesn’t enjoy a ritual when it’s a ritual he isn’t in complete control of, and it’s starting to feel a lot like Erik is the one controlling when Charles comes and goes--not that he’s thinking of them as a pair, or a euphemism, or anything like that. He just happens to enjoy the pull of Erik’s mind, innocent enough, and he’s beginning to think Erik is taking advantage of it.

Which, he supposes, is how he ends up in the back of a stuffy taxi cab with Erik, and then into a rental car with no air conditioning with Erik, and in and out of buildings with Erik. Charles spends so much time decidedly  _ not _ watching the sweat bead on Erik’s very handsome, very heterosexual forehead that he ends up paying for the most expensive hotel he can find, a room with two beds and, according to concierge,  _ supreme _ air conditioning capabilities. (When in the world had he become a devout Catholic again, he thinks, crossing himself and praising the Lord for at least the fifth time since they’d started their little road trip.)

In the hotel room their first night, and furthermore every room after, he learns quite a few things about Erik that he comes to know as fact. He drinks hotel room coffee like it’s the fountain of youth, for a start, which makes Charles want to gag, honestly, because they never have tea. He takes up the middle of his bed when he sleeps, spare pillows strewn around his body in a strategic sort of juvenile fort, protecting him from both outside light and cold, since he often kicks off his blankets in the night. He has supreme bedhead in the mornings, and he always, without fail, wakes up grumpy and squinting. He always chooses black when they play chess and he likes to hear Charles’ opinion on everything from Kennedy to mutant politics. 

He also has absolutely zero concept of modesty.

Charles is by no means an early riser, usually coming into the world at a modest eleven-thirty or so, bewildered, wide-eyed, his hair curled around his face, but Erik, as he soon learns, gets up in the morning and runs. He had never struck Charles as the particularly fit type, but it’s fine that he is, all lean muscle and long arms and absurdly long fingers and--well, anyway, it’s fine he’s fit. That in itself is not the root of the problem. Charles, half-asleep and half-conscious by the bumping of his companion and the stir of a mind rousing him as well, enjoys following him mentally on his runs, honestly finds solace in the blankness of Erik’s mind as he lets himself fall into the rhythm of feet on pavement and mutation on metal. No, it’s only when he returns, when Charles is still dazedly rising and tangled in bedsheets, when he comes into the hotel room looking like a storm, that Charles fears for his sanity.

Erik must honestly  _ run,  _ because no person--mutant or otherwise--simply breaks that much of a sweat by jogging around the block a few times. Charles, wits not quite about him at so early and so without his beloved jasmine tea that sits untouched at Division X, has trouble tearing his eyes off the stupid undershirt that clings to Erik’s (lithe, supple, graceful, beautiful) chest, never quite manages to pull out of Erik’s mind when he-- _ no, God _ \--pulls it up, over his head, tossing it on the floor, discarding the rest of his clothes in such a casual and unbothered manner that Charles sputters and panics inwardly each time. He just never gives warning, that’s all. His mind is always running through a similar mantra, calm and collected, and never does he methodically pull them off one layer at a time like Charles, carefully reminding himself mentally that yes, socks do indeed come after trousers or else he’ll forget.

And he gives no similar warning once he exits the shower, somehow not dripping but quite damp, looking quite the same as he had when Charles had fished him out of the ocean, curled hair sticking to that damned forehead each time. Charles allows himself, just this once, to rake his eyes down Erik’s body, across his broad and scarred chest, his arms carefully crossed across it, and--oh, no,  _ no no no _ .

How is he so unashamed? How does he never wear a towel? Charles is going to die, truly and honestly, in a miscellaneous hotel room while Erik digs through his suitcase, completely and absolutely naked. Charles does not, absolutely will not look between his legs. He stops at the tapering waist and the jutting hipbones there and turns over, willing himself to be a strong man, to think of Oxford, to think of his sister--no, his grandmother. Yes. Grandmother and her odd-smelling home and her fat corgis. Perfect.

Except, no, it isn’t perfect. Erik’s mind is so easy, too easy, to slip into, and he feels rather than hears the smug and idiotic Erik-chuckle.  _ Enjoying the show, my friend? _

Charles sits up, shoulders squared in indignation, which somehow he feels in the spur of the moment is the right thing to do, though it gives him a view of Erik’s (quite honestly unfairly toned) ass as he manages, finally, to cover himself a little. “Erik, you really ought to…”

“To what,” Erik asks, pausing with his shirt over his head, arms trapped--dear God--in his sweater. He raises an eyebrow and levels his face, very carefully. Unreadable, and his mind the same. Damn him.

“To… to... I don’t know! Cover yourself.” Charles feels his ears go pink, knows they’re probably about as red as a tomato now, wonders how he ever managed to piss off someone this badly that he’s in this cosmic position. Karma, what a load of bull. Charles has been perfectly darling his entire life, and this is not what he needs. “They’ll--people might talk.”

Erik laughs, but somehow does not pull his sweater on any more. He seems to enjoy himself just as he is, leaning on one leg and bringing his arms back down. He discards the clothes he’s holding as an afterthought, and takes a seat. Across from Charles, on his bed. Charles’ bed. Fucking hell. “Talk,” he says, testing the words in his mouth with an eyebrow ever-ascending.  _ As though they’d have anything to talk about, _ Erik thinks, and Charles can’t help but listen.  _ He’s probably  _ something _ to talk about, though, with the way he swaggers around like he owns the verdammt world.  _ “Who is going to see?”

“Well, there’s--you never know when--don’t they have surveillance in these sorts of places?” Of course they don’t, not in the bedrooms, not in the middle of the nicest hotel in the rather nice city Charles had chosen to stop in. Idiot. “I don’t know! People! Just--just--god, Erik, just put your clothes on, please!”

Erik laughs again, and lets a lazy grin spread across his face as he analyses Charles’. It feels like he’s preparing for a  _ meal, _ and for a moment Charles is worried he might just eat him up, right in their hotel room, right on his borrowed bed, completely unclothed. A moment passes, then two, then Charles allows himself to breathe.  _ No, of course, Oxford, _ Erik thinks.  _ He’s English, isn’t he? More tact necessary with these types, can't go pushing them and expecting them to push back. _ Erik lets his smile fall, and he stands up to go and put his clothes on. Charles takes several deep breaths, pointedly ignores Erik’s thoughts, as loud and confused as they may be, and reminds himself to kindly charm the receptionist into bringing them more towels.

It continues like this for several more hotel rooms, and each time it gets harder and harder for Charles to focus on just how glorious the female physique actually is. For one, the hotels they’ve begun to choose are not equipped with a bar area for Charles to drink himself to sense, because as much as Alex Summers is mature, he and Sean are not of age to drink, and Charles honestly worries he won’t be able to say no to a freckled pout or a pleading look. Sean is much too boyish for his own good, bastard, taking advantage of Charles’ soft heart like that. For another, Erik is just so bloody unashamed of himself, of Charles, of his apparent attraction  _ to _ Charles, as though it isn’t nineteen fucking sixty-two and as though Charles has ever--would ever.

But God, if it isn’t  _ tempting _ .

Erik returns from his jog one morning, just as sweat-flushed and attractive as he always is--objectively, of course--slamming the door behind him. Charles is still in bed, but he’s aware it’s not his but instead theirs, as though that’s a concept he’s familiar with in regards to Erik. A dream, then. Charles is good at picking up on his own dreams, and he isn’t sure is one of his own, because Erik’s hair never curls like it’s wet when he jogs, not at the calibre it is now, but it is, so he must be in one of their dreams. Perhaps this is Erik’s dream; Charles dreams of the past, of memories, of the minds of others. Charles thinks about it, thinks “oh, fuck it”, and lets things happen. Better in Erik’s (and Charles’) potentially amoral subconscious than in his complicating reality.

Erik is looking at him with the same eyes as in their first hotel room together, staring hungrily like Charles is water in a desert and Erik has been walking for days. Delightful, delectable, and damn it if it doesn’t feel good to be desired that way. Charles barely opens his mouth, hardly gets out a breathy utterance of Erik’s name before he’s halfway on the bed and Charles is meeting him there, tumbling back onto the sheets and tangling their legs together. 

Erik kisses him once they’ve settled, and he kisses quite like a freight train, something better than a freight train, and if a freight train was tongue and teeth and soft lips. Charles is mesmerised by it, can barely pull himself away, and since he’s in a dream, he lets himself outright moan when they pull apart for air and a trail of their saliva follows Erik’s handsome, beautiful, sinful mouth. Bastard. Charles is a little upset that Erik has the upper hand, and takes the opportunity to shove his knee up and in between both of Erik’s thighs. Erik, then, makes them even, moaning of his own accord.

They, apparently, are going to fight it out. Erik lifts his hand, pushes it into Charles’ sleep-tousled hair, and tugs. Pulls, really, quite hard, and oh, dear, this must be a dream or else how could he have possibly known. It really has been too long, apparently, since his last bout of heavy petting, because Charles bucks up, arches his back, embarrassingly, and drags his hands along Erik’s sides. His handsome sides, his smooth and perfect sides. “You look beautiful like this,” Erik says, and his voice is that unlike Charles has ever heard from him. “Submissive, I mean. It suits you, my Oxford boy.”

_ His Oxford what? _ , a voice in Charles’ mind protests, stamping it’s metaphorical foot, and Charles pushes back, hard, and flips them. If Erik wants a fight, he can have one, because Charles if nothing if not a supreme sparring partner. Charles’ hair is still in Erik’s hand, and he pulls on it roughly, trying for purchase, but Charles has felt worse and instead is glad for the feeling of it, catching Erik’s neck with his lips, his tongue, his teeth, anything. He is only a little bit smug when Erik’s hand goes slack at his scalp, except that's a total lie, because he lets out a triumphant “ha” against the mark he is currently sucking into his jaw. 

His triumph lasts for only a short time, however, because Erik’s hands move from occupying themselves in his hair to occupying themselves on Charles’ ass. He can't say he blames Erik. He also  _ is _ blaming Erik, because he is extremely aroused, horrifyingly wet, and he won’t dare admit for what, or in fact, for whom. Maybe only to himself. Erik responds to Charles’ daring display quite fondly, or quite well at the very least, for he growls and pushes his hips up and rocks desperately against Charles’ thigh. Of course, never one to be outdone, he pulls once again on Charles’ hair and snarls, possessive and commanding. Charles moans, and then Charles decides two moans drawn from him by Erik is two too many, and that it is high time he evened the score. He ducks his head and rips Erik’s hand free from his hair, pushing Erik’s arms high above his head, pressing his mouth, his tongue, his teeth against Erik’s delightful expanse of neck. He tastes heavenly, and his voice dies out, previously struggling fingertips going slack in Charles’ grip. (When had they begun to hold hands? Charles can’t remember, and he had initiated the contact of their hands.)

“I’ve never been submissive to a single person,” Charles says, defiant. 

“No, undoubtedly not. Never been fucked a day in your life. You know what you want, don’t you, though, little prince?” Charles laughs, a soft “ha” once again into the hickey he’s leaving on Erik’s jaw, before pulling back to admire his handiwork: Erik, pinned underneath him, painfully aroused with blown pupils, panting and baring his teeth as though daring Charles to try and claim him. As if Charles isn’t dying to be claimed himself.

“I am not a prince.” His thigh presses into Erik’s groin, and his hips buck of their own accord.

“Spoiled little rich boy, then,” Erik says, voice shuddering. Charles flushes. God, Erik in his dreams sounds too much like the real thing. What does that say about him? Charles is going to give his subconscious a stern talking-to. “An Oxford boy.”

“Your fascination with my schooling, my friend. People will think you have some sort of fetish for it.”

Erik chuckles, but it’s raspy and laboured. Charles is so, so horribly turned on just by the sound of it, hips almost grinding against Erik on instinct alone, but he doesn’t dare allow himself to show his hand, not when he still has one to show. “Not in the slightest,” Erik says, looking away, and Charles can’t believe it--he’s lying. He has a divine interest in Charles’ schooling, finds the idea of good Oxford Charles bent over a desk and spanked, or taking a cock out of his mouth and pulling away with drool and semen stained across his sinfully red lips, or bouncing as he rides someone so perfectly and so deliciously he’s rendered silent with the sheer pleasure of it. Charles knows. He can see it all, can  _ feel _ it radiating from Erik’s mind in waves. “Only that I have one for you, Charles.”

Charles runs the tip of his tongue over his lips, mouth left hanging open. This is the first time Erik has used his name; he hadn’t expected it to have such an effect on him, but it does, and his breathing immediately becomes as laboured as Erik’s moments before. 

“Absolutely filthy,” Erik whispers, and his eyes linger on Charles’ mouth. “You look lovely like this, Charles, so delightfully slutty like this--” Charles shoves his tongue into Erik’s mouth because he just feels that hot under his gaze, and also because he can.

_ Be quiet, _ Charles thinks, and leans in to kiss him again.  _ You talk too much.  _ They kiss again, passionate and hot and wet. Erik bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood, wrenching his hands away and pulling Charles closer, ever closer, by his rough grip on Charles’ ass.

All too soon, Charles is blinking himself awake, roused by Erik’s mind beside him. Charles watches in the dark room as Erik sits up and looks down at himself, perplexion tangling through his mind as he examines his body. He’s not confused, Charles recognizes, just frustrated. Charles wants to sit up and alert himself to Erik’s presence, but his body won’t let him move, and he’s even afraid to breathe too loudly and disrupt the silence of the moment. Charles can hear the ceiling fan whipping softly in the fragile quiet.

“Fuck,” Erik rasps, and he looks over at Charles’ bed. His mind is a repetition of the same messy thoughts, a combination of  _ shit-shit-shit-shit _ and pangs of arousal and drowsiness.

Charles blushes, fearing being caught, but if Erik notices he doesn’t say, instead sinking back into the bed with a sigh.  _ Gute nacht _ , _ Charles,  _ Erik thinks, and Charles doesn’t let the air out of his chest until Erik’s mind has dipped back into sleep. 

Charles doesn’t get back to sleep.


End file.
